There was no singing, this time. The Twentieth was smarting with the
shame of its defeat; it was savage for revenge; but, held in reserve
behind the battle line, it had to wait listening to the booming cannon
and the crackle of machine guns for an impatient hour—then they were
ordered back to Mouzon.
At Mouzon, news of a fresh defeat awaited them. The town was now
distraught, terror-stricken by the ever-nearing, ever-increasing
thunder of the German cannonade. When Georges arrived at midnight,
almost every house was lighted. The frenzied inhabitants were packing
up or hiding their belongings, ready to fly. The “Bosches” were coming!
At dawn, Georges, sleeping by the road-side, was awakened to see a
pathetic procession of refugees hurrying away to safety. Pathetic? It
was tragic, comic, grotesque, sublime! Everyone was dressed in his
best clothes; everyone carried bundles, carried hens, carried trunks,
carried the Lord knows what—and the memories of 1870 to boot! Wagon
after wagon passed, piled high with furniture, bags, boxes, baskets,
and provisions, with women and children atop, and cows tied on behind.
Whole families—three generations—trudged on foot, men and women and
children, children, children, children, and weeping old grandmothers
trundled along in wheelbarrows.